


the bird in the glass cage

by themirrordarkly



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Wings, Angst, Art embedded in story, Attraction, Bearded Steve Rogers, Bittersweet, But he doesn't have the serum though, Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2019, Fantasy, First Kiss, First Meetings, Forbidden Love, Historical Fantasy, How Do I Tag This, Kinda Medieval with made up places, Kissing, M/M, Opposites Attract, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Royalty, Warrior Steve, Wingfic, Wings, everyone has wings, prince bucky, romantic, so much research
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 13:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19724719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themirrordarkly/pseuds/themirrordarkly
Summary: A vision of white, like delicate frost before dawn: James was standing there. The first thing Steve thought was that he was taller than he first appeared, and the next: he was even more beautiful this close up.A medieval fantasy au wingfic





	the bird in the glass cage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Peth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peth/gifts).



> This is my contribution to the caprbb! I'll insert more accolades later!  
> I want to thank the lovely, patient and supportive, Peth! (pethkurayami.tumblr.com & wannabe-art.tumblr.com )  
> Your art is breathtaking! It inspired me to do this intricate and romantic wing fic!  
> And to my amazing beta, Keire Ke! Thank you!! I am forever grateful!  
> Please enjoy the fic!

Winter was in the air, with its chilled breezes and dusting of newly fallen snow on the trees and buildings. It brought a hush to everything. A celebration was at hand in Winterhold: the end of the war, and the men at arms were called forth to put on a display of strength and prowess.

Steve grunted as the wooden sword smacked him in the upper thigh, hard enough to leave a welt. He countered with a spin, his russet colored wings flaring, crashing his wooden shield into the opponent’s wrist. The sword spun out of the other’s hand, sliding over the trampled hard earth. Muscle reflex took over as Steve blocked a wild punch, blinking the sweat out of his eyes. There was an opening. With a quick aerial flip, he dove with both feet, knocking the other down, his shield hovering over the man's throat.

“Dammit…,” Clint groaned out. “Bastard, I think you broke my wrist.”

Steve swallowed a smile at Clint's protest.

“Quit your whining. Do you submit?” Steve arched an eyebrow, his shield not moving an inch.

“All right. All right.” Clint spread out his arms, palms outs in a show of surrender. “But you got sloppy yourself.”

“Point.” Steve reached out to help Clint up.

“I’m better with a bow than sword.” Clint shook the dirt from his dark grey wings. They were touched with a vibrant violet hue on his primaries.

“That’s why you practice.”

“Still, I tagged you. I count that as a gold star in my book.” Clint chuckled.

“Small point once you're missing a head.”

“Ouch.” Clint’s eyes grew comically wide.

Steve’s thigh throbbed with the bruise. But on a battlefield it would have been a deep cut. It was a sacrifice play to win, but there were other ways to do so. But he was distracted. Distracted by the audience that came to see the sparring of the troops. The continuous din of wood clacking and sounds of exertion from the others' training rung in his ears. The crown prince and his entourage watched as if it was theater, a play. Steve was slick with sweat and stunk of musk and dirt, despite the brisk temperature. He didn't care to be someone's amusement. He was leaving his position as Captain of the Red Hawk Battalion soon, giving it to his second, Sam, a good, loyal and fierce warrior. One he could call friend.

But Steve was done. Burnt out and weary to the bone. He was granted leave indefinitely, with no end date. There was no need for him to stay. The last battle to capture back Hartwood Hill in the Great War against Westmore a success, but with a terrible loss: the Howlers, a handpicked squadron of soldiers, all dead in the campaign. Steve mourned them like brothers.

He looked upon the young prince sitting there, watching the sparring, and hated him. Never to have wielded a sword in battle, to have the stink of death and the chill of fear sink into his bones. He hated how perfect and glowing he was; his wings, soft and white like a pristine cloud. The careful fall of wavy brown hair that just brushed his shoulders. His clothes immaculate, the white suit and tiara of crystal snow jewels. How Steve longed to smear his dirty fingers over his beautiful clothes and streak mud on his high-cut cheek bones.

No, it wasn't hate; it was lust.

He turned away, his cheeks flushing redder than with the exercise. The prince did not deserve his ill-tempered ire. Or his unwelcome illicit desires. He was a soldier, nothing else. And he lived and died for the kingdom. He didn't really know him but for a quick nod or greeting. A bow of his head to his grace. The prince didn't get his hands dirty; it was the army's job to do that.

“I’ll miss your clumsy attempts at humor," Steve said, drawing his attention back to Clint while they strode toward the exit of the practice hall.

“That wasn't humor, that was me trying to beat your ass.”

Steve smiled at that and clasped his hand on Clint’s shoulder. “Let’s get cleaned up for the banquet.”

“Free food!” Clint whooped as his wings ruffled in excitement.

“Ah, yes.” Steve smiled, but he wondered how free it really was. It wasn't his place or concern anymore. A hot meal and a comfortable place to lay down his head at night were all the luxuries he needed. Queen Margaret of Summerset gave him a small portion of land for his contribution to the war. She wanted to give him more, but he refused. It was enough for him.

“Captain.” Someone called out before he reached the exit.

“Go on.” Steve waved his hand to Clint, “I’ll catch up later,” he said, as turned toward the person who addressed him.

A vision of white, like delicate frost before dawn: the prince was standing there. The first thing Steve thought was that he was taller than he first appeared, and the next: he was even more beautiful this close. All that white was dazzling. His eyes reflected the winter sky, a clear grey blue.

“Have we met before? Before the war?” The prince’s voice had a gentle cadence.

“No, my lord.”

“There is something about those eyes, the nose.” The prince made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Your wings, the color of harvest. Grand and rich.”

Steve glanced down, at the silk suit, the neatly manicured nails of the prince’s hands. They stood so close Steve's pungent smell of sweat mingled with the heady notes of juniper and cedar that the prince was perfumed with. It smelled wild and fresh as a forest, and his nose wanted to bury into the prince’s neck to breathe it in. _What was wrong with his thinking?_ No, he would have remembered this. They didn't travel the same paths.

“You speak forward, I am honored.” Steve bowed his head, and the prince placed an index finger under his chin to lift it up.

“None of that.” The prince smiled, and it was a physical punch to Steve's heart, taking his breath away. “I am the one that should be honoring you. Without your arm, your shield, and the furious courage of you, of all of your men, we wouldn't be here to enjoy this crisp winter day and have a feast to celebrate the victory.”

“It was my duty, your highness.” That tiny touch had brought Steve nearly to his knees. He steeled himself to the physical reaction to the lightning spark that jolted through him.

“James. Call me James.”

Steve was taken aback, shaking his head. “I mustn’t.”

“I insist, Captain.” A small smile played on his lips, and it was definitely doing something to Steve’s insides. He couldn't act on it, no matter what his body wanted. It was wrong for someone of his station to covet a royal.

A man rushed up to them.

“Your highness, you have other duties,” the viscount interrupted. “ A guest dignitary from Summerset awaits your presence.” The man was a few inches shorter than James, with a neatly trimmed mustache, his wings a burgundy red with black edges.

“But I am meeting with a representative of Summerset right here.” James glanced at the viscount, then back to Steve. “This is Captain Rogers of the Red Hawk Battalion. One of the fine warriors that fought and bled for the alliance.”

The man gave a cursory look, wrinkling his nose as if brushing a speck of soot from his brocade jacket. “Captain. You fought well,” he placated, before turning his attention back to the prince. “The schedule must not be delayed.”

The viscount placed a hand on the royal’s upper arm. A little too quick and familiar, and Steve wanted to break every finger of that hand. The frown that marred James’s face cut at Steve like a knife. That was a face that shouldn't ever be sad. The emotion that bubbled up was real and confusing, because he barely knew this man. The years of training and battle, and no, he’s never met someone like this then, only from afar. In the command tent, with a troop visit. Maybe Steve stood out to him, with his wing color and towering stature. But he couldn't help shake the feeling there was something more. The prince jarring loose a puzzle piece that he now had to fit back into place.

“Captain, I’ll see you at the banquet?” James asked, his expression neutral. Was he trying to ignore the touch on his arm, though the grip appeared looser now. Steve didn't understand why the prince didn't simply shake off the offensive hand. Steve willed his hand still, though he craved to smash his fist into the viscount’s face.

“Yes, of course, sir.” Steve nodded, keeping his inner turmoil quiet.

“James,” the prince corrected.

Steve’s eyes flickered to meet James’s silvery blue eyes, shadowed by heavy lashes. There was an undeniable pull between them that he couldn't ignore. And Steve knew the prince felt it too.

“James.”

And the prince’s lips curved up.

As the prince walked away, he passed by a small child with her mother. The girl reached out her hand to touch James’s trailing wing.

“Darling, no!” The mother pulled the child back, but it was too late and one chubby hand grasped his long white primaries.

“I’m sorry, your grace.” Her voice quivered slightly from nervousness. “She's just a curious child. She meant no harm.”

One wasn't supposed to touch a royal, especially their wings, unless they gave permission. It was the reason Steve was so angry for James when the viscount grabbed his arm. It was a lack of respect. But the prince didn't react, and it was another royal doing it, so he bit his tongue. But this was different, a regular citizen. Touching someone's wings in general without consent was strongly frowned on due to the painstaking grooming they needed.This could go badly so Steve waited to see if he had to intervene for the sake of the mother and child.

The prince stooped down before scooping the child up into his arms, his face beaming with unguarded joy, eyes crinkling.

“What is your name, little one,” James said with a big grin.

“Bee...Beatrice,” the girl stuttered out.

That's a lovely name. Can I call you Bea?”

“Yes, my ma, calls me that.” She grinned.

“I have something for you.” The prince’s wing curved around them as he adjusted his hold on the girl to one arm. His hand brushed on the lesser covert feathers of his wing. With a flick of his wrist, he slid one out.

“Here, because you like to touch them.” Her eyes rounded with awe, gazing at the feather.

“Your highness,” the viscount interrupted, his mouth falling open. “What are you doing?”

“Giving myself to my subjects, Vasily.”

“It is improper.” His eyes nervously darted around.

“I don't really care. Here, little Bea.” The girl’s fingers closed around the feather.

“Thank you! Thank you!” She kissed his cheek before James set her down.

Steve watch the exchange fascinated by James’s tremendously kind heart. He was good, that was true. He hoped the prince’s generous nature wasn't going to be taking advantage of.

“Come, the dignitary awaits your presence along with your king,” Vasily said, as he ushered the prince forward.

The king, not father, and that left a sour note with Steve.

“The king, yes, can't keep father waiting.”

“It's good you have come to your senses.”

“I have not lost them. The child is happy, what can be more precious than that?” It was a hard tone. A tiny edge in the soft voice. A little defiance.

* * *

The feast was an elaborate affair, taking place in the Grand Banquet Hall with his high vaulted ceiling and elegantly carved marble statues sets in window alcoves. The heraldic flags of both Winterhold and Summerset, signifying the alliance they shared, decorated the walls along with the royal banner of the King of Winterhold. Various other heraldic banners were draped on the walls. A painstakingly crafted tapestry hung on the back wall, depicting Winterhold’s keep with a dozen females and males figures flying aloft in various poses of a dance. A large, long banquet table, draped with damask, dominated the room along with a huge fireplace.

The table was laden with the first course of venison, hare, wild boar and veal, with a showy centerpiece of a stuffed heron surrounded with poached pears and fresh flowers of red primrose and yellow honeysuckle. Peas, red carrots, and onions were mixed in with the various meat dishes. The wine flowed freely in crystal glass goblets, while the guests indulged in sweet honey breads and saffron pasties with plum jam. There was music: the troubadours played lutes and harps, singing lyrical poems of bravery and triumph, of love and joy.

Steve sat with the other men-in-arms wondering about the extravagant wealth on display, and how all this food could feed the small village past the central city keep for weeks. But it wasn't his call and it was tradition. There was a cause for celebration, but Steve didn't feel the joy, just the trappings of wanting to get out. To shake off responsibilities, however selfish that was. The war was still fresh, with nightmares that he couldn't confess to anyone. Clint and Sam, as well as several others from the Red Hawks, were there, enjoying the food and drink. Laughing and singing along with the troubadour’s songs.

Natasha made a grand entrance as usual, dress in emerald green silk that matched her eyes and contrasted with her fiery red hair. Her ebony black wings gleamed with rainbow highlights, as if she sprinkled fairy glitter dust over the them. She probably did.

She sashayed over to Steve, as he was pouring more ale for himself.

“Fancy a drink.” Natasha nodded her chin toward the wine.

“Baroness,” Steve teased not being able to help himself.

“Don't be an ass, Steve. That’s just plain rude.” She sniffed as she grabbed a goblet and held it out. A hurried servant poured the wine into it as she stared daggers at Steve.

Natasha was possibly the most dangerous person in the room, but it didn't stop him from playing with fire.

“Sorry, ma'am.” Steve smiled as she glared at him, but her lips softened into a smile.

“You know I can kill you six different ways with my shoe.” Natasha downed half her drink in one swallow.

“I don't doubt it.” Steve had heard the stories of the Widow. The ones they tell children to be good or the Widow will visit you. He was sure half the stories weren't true. Probably. Frankly, Steve didn't know, and kinda liked to keep it that way. He just knew he’d trust her not to kill him. She was a friend though she would deny it.

He met her four years ago, after the assassination of Count Zola. Steve and the Howlers were held up in the same town as she was, no way out unless they worked together. They found a way and now they both were stuck with each other. Friendship was weird like that.

Natasha held out the hand without the goblet. Steve took it and escorted her to an empty chair near his. A plate of steaming meat and bread was swiftly placed in front of her. She delicately picked up the spice laden stag meat and proceeded to tear into it with her gleaming white teeth, like she hadn't eaten in days.

It was like watching a predator sinking their teeth in their prey. It was both mesmerizing and a bit frightening at the same time.

She caught Steve’s look.

“What? This is fucking fantastic. What's wrong with you?” She broke off a piece of honey bread. “You never know when it’s going to be your last meal.”

Steve’s eyes drifted, looking for James. He found him in the middle of dignitaries and others guests of royalty. He was gracious and at ease, making small talk as he sipped at his wine.

“I wouldn't want to be in his shoes for all the money in the world.”

“Why?” Steve glanced back at Natasha. It was hard to pull his gaze away from James. It was like the stars and planets were slowly aligning themselves into a single orbit, and he was caught in it.

“You see all this?” Natasha waved a bone around she had been stripping clean.

“I see wealth, prestige, privilege, tradition,” he answered, ticking off each one with his fingers.

“I see a trap.” She shrugged. “All an elaborate trap of politics and power. There is no way out if you're born into it. No way but death. And that isn't a pretty picture. So you gotta be smart and cunning. And he’s a baby guppy that’s going to be eaten alive, if he doesn't learn to play the game.”

“What if he has help?” Steve never saw it that way, but then he never understood the complex power games of royalty. To have everything, yet still be cursed? But if that was true, what was really going on between all the pleasantries he was watching. Should he really get involved? He had no titles, no royal blood.

“What are you going to do?” Free him from this beautiful cage? I can tell you now, he isn't ready. Maybe never will be.” Natasha reached for a plump red grape and popped it in her mouth.

“I’ve seen his actions with the others. He isn't as naive as you think.” Steve felt the need to defend James.

“Really? Maybe there might be some hope then. They have him taking more and more duties of King George since he has fallen ill. It’s best he surrounds himself with people he can trust.”

Steve nodded as he drank his ale, thinking over what Natasha said.

* * *

In between courses, Steve found an opportunity to approach James. The prince looked as if he was gilded in gold, wearing a gold brocade jacket with matching gold silk trousers and a golden circlet around on his head. He was angelic, with his pure white wings, the tips dipped in golden glitter. He didn't look real but he was.

“Captain.” James’s face lit up as Steve came nearer.

He was talking to some other royal, one with greying blond hair and wings of dark green with streaks of blue and yellow. The feathers were brilliant, but reminded Steve of viper colors. Though the old man’s face was kind, his eyes were sharp and clever.

“I like you to meet my other uncle, Lord Pierce,” James said.

“Captain Rogers. I heard wonderful things about you and your heroic exploits,” Lord Pierce said with a smile, sticking out his hand to shake.

“Thank you, my lord,” Steve said, as he gave a firm handshake.

“Ah, there is the visiting Earl of Easthaven over there. You have to excuse me, your grace. Captain.” He nodded to both before hurrying off.

Steve watched the older man wander off. He reminded him of a peacock. All show, but there was something calculated behind his eyes which was unsettling. Steve shook it off as Lord Pierce was just being polite to a commoner.

“Would you like some fresh air?” James asked bring his attention back to him. “I could take you on a short tour of the grounds before the fourth course? I promise there are only two more. But the cooks are proud of their hard work, and I'd hate to disappoint them.”

“Led the way, your grace... James,” Steve corrected himself.

“I like you.” James beamed at him then chuckled, as he guided Steve through the double doors leading to the gardens.

* * *

They made their way through the pathways of the large stone walled enclosed garden. Plots of herbs and winter flowers were laid out like a checkerboard, the numerous neatly trimmed hedges giving shape to the borders. There were various stone statues of animals and fairy-type beings, and trees with encircle willow entwined benches to sit on.

James guided him through the paths, pointing out the variety of roses that were laying dormant for the winter, naming each one, explaining each color. Steve was enjoying James’s knowledge of rose breeding. James wished Steve could see them all in bloom in the springtime, and Steve wanted that too. But he knew that wasn't going to happen this spring or even the next.

They were winding their way towards a stone fountain when James stopped abruptly, turning his head back towards the keep. Steve followed his gaze, and he noticed a man in a guard’s uniform of Winterhold standing near the entrance of the gardens.

“Wait here,” James said, and he unfolded his wings with a graceful snap. Even this he made elegant, spreading them with a flourish, before gliding off the short distance to the guard. The sight was breathtaking as James took fight with those snowy colored wings, even though it wasn't far.

It was only a few minutes before James winged his way back. The glitter dust flaking off a few of his feathers in tiny sparkes as he landed, like he was some ethereal fae being.

Steve glanced back; the guard was gone.

“That was the Captain of the Guard, Sir Brock. He can be a pest, but he is loyal.” James sighed. “He is overzealous at times watching over me.”

“That's a good thing, I suppose.” It was good to hear that the prince was protected, but on the other hand there was a certain lack of freedom to go places without a watchful eye.

“You must think I am ungrateful, but sometimes I just like to roam the grounds alone in my thoughts. And glide down to the orchards and sample an apple or two, like youths do.” James continued toward the fountain. The sun had already set, leaving purple clouds stretching across the darkening sky.

“I can understand that.” Steve stopped once he was at the fountain. The basin was drained for the winter, but Steve imagined water cascading from its multiple tiers: it was ornately beautiful."

“You have had your exploits with the war, your time to roam the world, but I see it in your eyes that you are weary of that now,” James said.

“That's very perceptive of you.” Steve’s face fell, as he glanced at James, then away to look at the empty fountain. It was hard to hide his feelings, but to have them pointed out reminded him of what he lost.

“I made you frown, that wasn't my intention." James reached out towards him, but Steve wasn’t ready for comfort, and instinctually stepped back. The prince’s hand hovered there for a moment, before it fell back to his side.

“What are you afraid of?”James questioned, his voice soft, his eyes not wavering from Steve’s.

“You, this.” Steve gestured between them. He was having a hard time putting it into words. But from James’s inquisitive look he knew that he wasn't the only one feeling an attraction.

“Why?” James asked. It was such a simple question, that Steve just didn't have the answer to. James’s face was so sincere, his eyes unguarded, those parted lips so inviting.

“You do know what this looks like?” Because Steve couldn't fight this. He fought in the harshest conditions, killed and bled and watched friends die, but he couldn't fight this weakness. This pull towards this man. He should leave before it went too far, but his feet remained frozen in place.

“I know exactly what this looks like. But I'm not afraid.” James tilted his chin up, his eyes challenging him as they narrowed slightly.

“Fear can be a good thing. Keeps you honest.”

“But what if I want to be wicked? Just one night, one hour, one minute? I don't want to play by the rules; I want to make some of my own.”

“Why me?” Steve was one of many warriors, not unique. He pushed hard to be the best with his fighting and tactics in battle, but floundered with refined pleasantries. What did the prince see when he looked at him?

“Because you feel it too. A connection. I don't understand it. But I feel as if I know you, maybe from another life. Or maybe it's fate?”

“So what do we do?”

“Kiss me and if that is all you can give, so be it.” James stepped closer, but this time Steve didn't move away.

James’s fingertips of his left hand gently brushed along his beard, and followed the line of his cheekbone. It sent tiny sparks of sensation where the fingers trailed over his skin. James’s pupils widened, rimmed in liquid silver; his breath puffed against his lips. Steve wanted to close his eyes at the soft touches, but he also wanted to watch James’s face slowly shift to wonder and desire.

A thumb softly moved across his lower lip, pressing at the center. Steve’s hands couldn't stay still any longer: and one large hand came up to start caressing the side of James’s neck, his thumb dipping into the hollow there.

“Is this good?" Steve asked.

“Yes,” he whispered, his eyes like a sleepy cat.

James leaned forward, moistening his own lips, resting his forehead against Steve’s, closing his eyes. His hand stroked down the side of Steve’s face, a tender touch. Steve ached from it, his heart beating faster, his eyelids fluttering closed. Tilting his head away, James's mouth brushed his lower lip, before slightly parting in a tiny pant, and Steve felt a fine tremor under his caressing hand: James was trembling.

“Shh...it's alright, it's alright, “ Steve said. His whole heart was breaking open. He couldn't be strong, couldn't wait any longer for James’s lips to press against his.

And then they were; James’s lips softly kissed his.

Steve tilted his head slightly to the side, noses brushing as his mouth opened to welcome the kiss. James gave another teasing, light brush of his lips, before his teeth lightly scraped at his lower lip. Steve swallowed a low groan, before James's lips pressed firmer, mouth slotting over his. His tongue started tentatively licking and exploring his mouth.

Steve was undone, his fine control snapping as his other hand tightened its grip on James’s shoulder, his fingers massaging into it, pulling him closer. Everything shifted as Steve took over the kiss, his tongue sweeping in, his lips and mouth not as gentle on James’s. He wanted to be gentle, so gentle, because this man was spun gold, beautiful and delicate. His harsh hands and lips not worthy to claim this. But he couldn't be as tender. James didn't protest, answering with more hunger and want, his fingers tightly grasping the back of Steve’s hair.

James let out a soft whine at the back of his throat. And it brought Steve nearly to his knees, his blood pounded in his veins; it rushed downward, his groin, a throbbing ache. He couldn't do this. He had to stop, before it went further, even if his body raged at him.

Steve broke away, stepping back, shaking his head, needing to clear his head.

“I can't. This is wrong.” Steve shook his head again.

“I don't think something that feels this good can be wrong.” James’s lips still glistened wet from the kiss, his eyes more black than silver.

Steve noticed a tiny tear at shoulder of James’s gold jacket. And he felt shame, as he glanced away. He did that, he did that with his big clumsy hand. It was good he’d stopped. His desire for James was too much for him to control. He fisted his hands, trying to will his erection away.

“I’ll be leaving in a week. Nothing can come of this even if we wish it so.”

“I’ll find you one day.”

“I can't live with that hope.”

James opened his mouth to speak again, then closed it. He smoothed his hand through his hair, his brows knitting together as if deep in thought. He walked over to the edge of the fountain, sat down, then gazed up at Steve.

“Do you play chess?” he asked.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Steve stared at the prince confused. He didn't understand what James was suggesting.

“I like chess, but I can never find a partner that can beat me.”

“Are you that good?”

“Try me.”

“Tempting.” Steve apparently had no control when it came to this man. He was going to take the challenge.

“Please, one night. A chess match. We can play until dawn.

That's very wicked of you.” Steve had to smile, as he shook his head.

“I thought so.”

James led him back to the keep.

“Meet me in the library after the banquet.” James leaned in to whisper in his ear, and then was gone, drifting off towards the banquet table and the others.

Afterwards, Steve found his way to The Great Library. James was waiting there, arriving only minutes before him. A chess board was all set up to play a match. The carefully carved marble pieces represented soldiers of yore. There was no time for him to prepare the board, unless it already was.

“You were expecting me to say yes?” Steve picked up a knight piece, rolling it around with his fingertips before setting it down.

“I hoped. But no, I always have it set up for the next game.”

He sat down across from James. And glanced down at his miniature army of white chess pieces.

“I usually play black.” The prince appeared demure, his dark lashes fluttering downward, as he gave a little smile.

It wasn't what Steve would expect, as playing white had a slight advantage, but then James kept surprising him. He wondered if James wanted to play at a handicap unsure of Steve’s skill. He opened by moving the King's Pawn two spaces forward.

“What if there's a draw?” Steve asked, peering at James as he studied the board.

“I don’t think that will be a problem.” He answered with a quick smile.

James’s opening answer move was brilliantly bold: the Queen Bishop's pawn two spaces forward.

And the game was on.

They played until just before dawn, the game ending with James capturing his King.

They watched the sunrise together, marveling over the beauty of Winterhold in the early morning. Everything was washed in golds and coppers, chasing the night away. A light snow began to fall, and it was magical. James sleepily leaned in, rested his head on Steve’s shoulder, giving a peaceful smile. His hand tentatively trailing over the downy feathers of Steve’s shoulder blades. It was an intimate gesture and Steve mirrored the same. The feathers were soft as a cloud.

“This is fate.” James turned up his face to gaze at Steve, his silver eyes showing him everything.

“No, it is a promise.” Steve dipped his head to give James a soft kiss. He wasn't going to fight the fates.

If Steve ever made his way back, after his time away, he’d come back to James. He knew this in his heart, and would remember this night forever. It was a promise.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Addon:  
> I like to acknowledge all the lovely comments left on this fic. I've read everyone, and they warmed my heart. ♡ I haven't been able to thank each one of you personally for your kind words, because I'm simply tongue tied. I hope to one day, but until then thank you so much for your comments and enjoying the fic!


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